^ W ? 1 & t\ 






AN 


ORIGINAL 

AND VERY INTERESTING 

POEM, 

WRITTEN 

IN THREE CANTOES: 

THE FIRST, ENTITLED 

THE FATE OF POET S. 

THE SECOND, 

THE APOCALYPTIC VISION 

THE THIRD, 

ON THE PROGRESS OF ART, %. 

AND THE 

REDEMPTION OF AMERICA? 

BY THE IMMORTAL WASHINGTON. 

► 


BY JAMES CALLEN. 





PRINTED AT THE OFFICE OF THE BALTIMORE VISITER. 


1835. 













THE 


n> 

■ ti 

* FATE OF POETS. 

£ 

f<5 


CANTO 1. 


“What is worth in any thing, 

But as much money as ’twill b^ing . ,, —Hu dibrm- 

Well, Sirs, a bard self taught! dame Nature’s Child, 
From Ireland, too, where half the folks run wild;— 
To you, a serious poem recommends, 

Not for celebrity, nor selfish ends. 

I would, ere now, produc’d some works in verse, 
But tlio’ the rags are plenty, paper’s scarce; 

This seems a paradox,—although ’tis clear 
The hapless Poet’s doom’d his rags to wear, 

Nor hath his genius yet found out the knack 
To make them into paper on his back. 

Dull Jest apart, the poet’s life, we know, 

Is link’d to disappointment, care and wo; 

This Word’s a lottery—fortune shuts her eyes 
And draws—but seldom draws—the bard a prize. 

If there was not another, and by far 
A better world, we Poets wretched are. 

In accents loud, this calls me to beware, 

And shun the Muse’s fascinating snare— 

She’ll place a thousand lures before the eyes, 

But at cool Reason’s touch each phantom flies; 

Her wealth, her reputation, and her fame, 

Are like a cloud, a bubble, or a dream, 




For these bards toil, and drowsy vigils keep, 

But wak’d to Reason, only wake to weep— 

Some transient gleams of comfort we may find, 

But all is vanity and pain of mind. 

The bard who writes, and hopes mankind to please, 
Should have a competence, and live at ease, 

For if dull care annoys him day and night, 

How can he hope his works will yield delight? 

How can he joy to other minds impart, 

If poverty and grief corrode his heart? 

If such a bard must write for daily bread, 

Far better he were numbered with the dead— 

Better a millstone round his neck were hung, 

And he into the depths of ocean flung, 

There from the cares of life he would find rest, 

And the blue wave roll lightly o’er his breast. 

David’s sweet Harp, by Heaven attun’d, had power, 
To cure King Saul, possessed in evil hour; 

His Psalms were all Divine—yet w r ell w r e know 
He had his share of suffering-here below— 

Sorrow and want were the companions long 
Of the great Father of Psalmodic song! 

Heaven spar’d not David—may we.then expect 
To roll in affluence when he met neglect? 

Great Spencer, author of the “-Fairy Queen,” 

A poem full of life and genius sheen; 

Unpatronis’d—By Bess, unnotic’d lay, 

Obscure in want, and languish’d life away. 

Fam’d Shakespeare would have met an equal end, 
Had not Southampton prov’d the Poet’s friend. 

King Charles, left loyal Butler to expire 
In want, although he prais’d his wit and fire, 

And, tir’d with quoting the fine things he said, 

Oft slept with “Hudibras’’ beneath his head! 

So Homer’s “Iliad” Alexander kept 
Beneath his pillow, when in camp he slept! 

Seven Cities now contend for Homer dead, 

Through which the living Homer begg’d his bread! 
Into an Oven famous Terence crept 
To pass the night, whilst blockheads warmly slept 
In beds of down—but Fate decrees it so, 

That bards are wanderers, through a world of wo. 

Our Cliurchhills, Johnsons, Savages, and Garricks, 


5 


Were forc’d to lodge in garrets and in barracks, 
And often were so wretched and so poor, 

The baliffs thunder’d at their bolted door! 

Great Otway, feeling bard of the great Soul, 

Was choak’d—upon a gifted penny roll! 

And Chatteron of cash and patrons void— 

A second Ossian— himself destroy’d; 

Byron—immortal Byron, had his share 
Of matrimonial strife, and pain and care; 

To aid the Greeks, sail’d to a foreign clime, 

And died at Missilonghi, in his prime. 

Burns sung his Country’s praise in melting strains, 
Yet want and wo rewarded all his pains. 

He sung old Scotia’s praise—but when her son 
Ask’d her for bread, she handed him a stone. 

But when Attrophas cut life’s brittle thread, 

And Scotia’s Bard far other worlds had lied; 

When care and want in death had clos’d his eyes, 
She bade a pile unto his momory rise! 

Poor Fernyhough, surrendering up his breath, 

No friend was near to close his eyes in death: 

And tho’ he did in genious far transcend, 

Yet his, alas, was an untimely end; 

Disastrous night, near Tyne, where he did stretch 
His toil worn limbs, and perish’d in a ditch! 
Southey, who wrote the play of old “Watt Tyler,” 
Tho’ a good Poet, and a Prose compiler, 

Chang’d both his note and principle alack, 

For yearly pension, and a butt of sack! 

Turn’d from an honest Whig to Knavish Tory, 

Bob gain’d the laureatship and lost his glory! 

Of Walter Scott’s great wealth, what is the end? 
A bankrupt bard—he pays a dividend! _ 

The poems of Dugall are wrote passing well, 

But what did they amount to—George can tell! 

And Johnny Graham was a Gaol Inspector 
In Lifford , ere his bishop made him Rector. 

To poets empty titles are but trash, 

If not endow’d with good estates, or cash. 

Great wits to madness still are near allied, 

And thin partitions do the space divide; 

Hence Poetry’s a mania at the best, 

And he’s the highest bard that’s most possess’d, 
Hence to assert, ’tis neither crime nor treason 


6 


That many a poet has outliv’d his reason! 

A proof of this was Lee—tho’ mad—his song 
Excell’d in genius all the rhyming throng. 

Collins and Swift, spent all their wit on paper, 

And died as senseless as a dying taper! 

Sappho, the dear soul—feeling poetess, 

What woes were hers, what exquisite distress? 

What unpropicious love? what mental storm? 

Made her efface her sweet enchanting form; 

Tho’ from her poems, thousand pleasures reap 
Yet, cross’d in Love, she took the “lovers leap,'’ 
Oppress’d with grief, the lovely Giecian dame 
Plung’d in the wave to quench her amorous flame. 
Sweet Mary, Queen of Scots, rank’d high among 
The first in beauty and in mournful song; 

But English Bess, of Mary’s power in dread, 

Doom’d her upon the block to lose her head! 

The rural poems of sweet Sarah Leech, 

A Lady who can either sing or preach, 

Although the Classic Starretlent his aid, 

Brought little prophet to the orphan maid! 

A solemn warning,—shall I then proceed? 

To print and publish and expect good speed? 

Good speed, ah! no, 1 fear no cheering ray 
Shall smile my night of sorrows into day. 

The poet still his poverty must pride in, 

While every hour his cell of want doth widen, 

Come wind, come weather, here, there, every place 
The ghastly spectre stares him in the face. 

Ill fated wretch, through all the scenes of life, 

He’s doom’d to want, and misery, aud strife! 

His weary travels—oft in sorrow end, 

Fulll many a place denies him of a friend! 

Toss’d on a sea where lashing surgest roar, 

Disastrous storms repel him from the shore: 

The shatter’d masts lie splinter’d o’er the deck 
Wild winds, mad wavas; forebode a total wreck! 
Thro’ Heav’n’s dark concave, hollow thunders roll: 
While swift wing’d lightnings flash from pole to pole. 
With legion fiends; the wrathful full Angel flies, 
Combining all the horrors of the skies! 

By fell adversitie’s impetuous blast 
A devious course his bark is ever cast: 

Till in the haven of eternal rest, 


7 


He anchors safe, no more by storms distress’d. 
Resign’d he leaves a world of woes and troubles, 
Where all is vanity, and empty bubbles, 

This side the grave he ceaseth not, to feel 
One trouble treading on another’s heel. 
Inclement seasons, and a sterile soil, 

Reward him poorly for his irksome toil. 

Abroad the critic, and the judge at home, 
Disgorge on him their fell invective foam. 

Thus lik a man, whose life is brought to stake, 

By the dread poison of the deadly snake, 

With soul dejected, and a heart forlorn, 

He may exclaim, alas! why was I born? 

Curs’d be that day, let backness on it dwell, 

Nor e’er emerge from dark oblivion’s cell, 

Ye silent dust, why was I call'd from thee? 
Heart-rending grief, and deep distress to see! 

Is poetry a gift? that gift’s a snare, 

By which most poets much deceived are. 


THE APOCALYPTIC VISION 


CANTO II. 


While some contemplate sin’s hell-kindling breath 
By thousands writhing in the jaws of death; 

While hoarse artillery cast the dread afar 
Of devastating, fell disastrous war; 

While active seamen, see the rending cloud 
Discharge a deluge on the foamy shroud; 

When incens’d Neptune hurls the wasting storm 
Wide o’er the deeps, in stern horrific form, 

I, in some peaceful vale, some lone retreat, 

A tragic scene in solemn strains relate, 

I sing of by past ills, and woes to come, 

The wrath of heaven, apostate nation’s doom. 

Oh! may that voice which speakelh in the thunder 
Awake my muse from her lethargic slumber, 

Start from supiness, hush dull sloth away, 

And all her intellectual power display; 

May she upon the flexile heart of youth 
Engrave the records of eternal truth; 

In thundering numbers, warn decrepid age 
Of dropping soon from this ungodly stage; 

May heaven be mine, when starting from the tomb, 
With countless worlds, I meet my final doom; 

All hearts shall gather blackness, joy shall wither 
When as a scroll the heav’ns are roll’d together, 

And the last trumpet thro’ all space proclaim, 

The wreck of nature’s strong compacted frame. 

O come sweet truth, thou jewel all supreme, 

I woo thy favour, dear celestial dame: 

Be thou my solid base, tho’ some engage 




9 


At thy strong holds vindictive war to wage: 

Thou’st long sustain’d the threats of dissolution 
And bore the sanguine rage of persecution; 

Oh! how men labour to put out thy light, 

And fill the world with an eternal night. 
Thouknowest no change, dark error’s mystic gloom 
Slays not thy germ, nor blights thy lovely bloom, 
And may thy tow’ring head still higher rise, 

Soul of the would and monarch of the skies. 

Time presseth on, locks, bars nor armed force, 
Nor fire, nor floods, can intercept his course, 

With ceaseless motion constant as the sun, 

Forever on, his wheel’d machineries run, 

Time rolls away, while circling seas give room, 
Forsake their tracks, and solid land become. 

Time rolls away, while death’s terrific spell 
Binds countless thousands in his dreary cell 
Time rolls away, and man forgotten lies. 

While from his dust the spiral stems arise. 

The sluggard may to his eternal sorrow 
Procrastinate repentance till to-morrow, 

But foolish man, alas! he never shall, 

His wasted days, and squander’d years recall. 
Perhaps this moment, thousands in their prime, 

Are weighing anchor from the shores of time. 

Time in the sing’lar should unnotic’d pass 
But times the plural specify the mass. 

Yet time and times do equally propend 
To one peculiar sense, one similar end. 

Our times are gloomy, such to sin we owe, 

It is the nation’s most inveterate foe; 

With sin, to balance equally the scale, 

The massy rocks, the ponderous mountains fail; 
From his trancendent seat, strip’d of his crown, 

Sin hurl’d Asyria’s lofty monarch down. 

Of Heaven’s dread ire ’gainst sin, a lesson we 
May learn from, that John the divine did see, 

When wafted upwards in the orbit trace 
Of planets rolling in perpetual race. 

Till with an overwhelming flood of light 
The new Jerusalem burst upon his sight, 

There the prolific tree of life he seen 
In all the verdure of perpetual green, 

He saw life’s river flowing to the brim 


10 


In which the spotless blood-wash’d myriads swim; 
He heard the sad complaint of Babylon. 

Alas! alas! our desolation's come; 

He saw the merchants of her traffic fail, 

Stand afar off, and for her torment wail; 

Cast dust upon their heads, the end deplore 
Of their pernicious, aggrandizing lore; 

He saw till Juda’s mighty prince prevails 
To ope the book, and loose the seven seals; 

He saw on opening of the first, unfurl’d 
Messiah’s conquering sceptre o’er the world; 

He saw,and lo! the second op’d give birth 
To hostile wars, which smote the peace of earth. 
The third when loos’d, he saw the scales define 
Sin’s dread rewards, with judgment to the line; 

He saw the fourth, when op’d, a thirst for blood 
On pale white horse the king of terrors rode; 

The fifth when loos’d, display’d the torments dire 
Of dungeon, rack, of gibbet, stake and fire, 

The sixth when op’d, lo! nature starts aghast 
As if a moment, and she groan’d hei last. 

The blood stain’d moon, the sun in darkness quite 
Predict the reign pf errors mystic night; 

The falling stars, indubitably tell 
Of men, who from trancendent stations fell; 
Themighty earthquake’s throes perceiv’d afar 
Warn Chlistless nations of intestine war; 

The seventh loos’d, from whose contents what wo, 
And floods of wrath, and seas of vengeance flow. 
John also saw in God-head grandeur grac’d 
AtGod’sright hand, the great Redeemer plac’d, 
His eyes pour’d forth the dazzling flood of day 
Which would eclipse in night, the solar ray; 

A shining garment o’er his feet did flow, 

His head and hairs were white like wool or snow: 
Who ceaseth not, for guilty man to plead 
The merits of his sorrows, tears and blood. 

John heard the once poor persecuted Saints 
Beneath the altar, cry with sad complaints; 

How long ere thou’lt, 0 our long-suffering God^ 
On those that dwell on earth avenge our blood. 

Of this and more, in vision borne away 
The seraph gave St. John a full display, 

Alas! still more t’ augment the sinner’s wo, 


11 


Seven Angels forth with high commission go; 

While from their vials, full of heav’n’s dread ire, 
They pour a flood of pestilential fire; 

From pole to pole, with dreadful fury hurl’d, 

It bursts in fell contagions thro’ the world. 

John from afar beheld the revolutions 
Which deluged’d France with grevious persecutions, 
He saw America exhaust the cup 
Which England, with revengeful wrath fill’d up, 

His figurative earthquakes, yet to come 
Predict usurping tyrant monarch’s doom; 

His threefold woe denounces wrath severe 
Which heaven provoking nations yet must hear. 
With ruthless hand the direful scourge of war 
Shall spread its ruins o’er the world afar. 

Earth yet shall by one general sweep be freed, 

God shall from her drive the estranged seed; 

Shall bathe his sword in blood*—his enemies slay 
Ere comes the peaceful, blest millenium day. 
Together yet the tares and wheat must blend, 

But God shall far divide them in the end; 

All perpetrators of ungodly deeds 
We say, are tares—confine them not to creeds. 
Eventful times, Jehovah’s scorging rod 
Prove every genuine follower of God. 

As winnowers pour down wheat and chaff togeth’r 
That so the w ind may part them from each other; 
The chaff is blown awry, the solid grain 
Purg’d of the dress, the boisterous blast sustain; 

So plague and sword and famine slay the seeds 
And blast the germ of sin’s pernicious weeds. 

John also saw a mighty Angel stand 
With h is right foot on sea, his left on land. 

Who with loud voice, and hands uplifted swor« 

By the Eternal, time shall be no more. 

The expression, time shall be no more, some say 
Hath pointed reference to the world’s last day. 

But my ideas I, with their’s unite, 

Who view' the subject in a different light, 

The end of time, referr’d to, here implies 
That a long suffering incens’d God denies 
A longer time for tyrants to repent, 

Apostate nations, w icbed kings lament; 

For when arrives that period; you’ll no mora 


12 


Deluge the world in floods of human gore. 

Ye tyrant fill your measure God till then, 

Bears with the most preposterous deeds of men, 

But oh! on wing fast speeds the fatal hour, 

When heaven on you revengeful wrath shall pour, 
Then your sad state with those you may deplore, 
Who mourn’d the harvest’s past, the summer’s o’er, 
Over Jerusalem, ill-fated city, 

The son of God shed tears of tenderest pity; 

But her hard-hearted sons had run a race, 

Which sealed their doom, elapsed their day of grace 
To the deluvian world, was given time. 

By true rapentance to relinquish crime; 

Which if they did not, God declar’d he would 
Sweep them to ruin by a shoreless flood. 

But tho’ a righteous Noah, preach’d and warn’d 
Them of their doom, still they his council scorn’d; 
Till an indignant God, his wrath display’d, 

And pour’d on them a judgment long delay’d, 

Once the Celestial straight and narrow road, 

To life immortal, Asia’s churches trod; 

From contrite hearts upborne on Seraph wings, 
Their prayers found access to the King of kings; 
But now they grope in errors mystic night, 

And have from genuine faith departed quite, 

Tlier^ cursed vices bred, which unsubdu’d 
A soul destroying leprosy ensued: 

The plague of sin, there boasts his millions slain, 
Nor health, nor soundness, head nor heart retain; 
There life and action high their ensign’s wave, 

But oh! they’re sleeping in corruption’s grave. 

Like doom awaits all nations that recede 
From paths of life, Death’s fatal tracks to tread. 

And as in every fell disease, which in 
The physical or moral world is known, 

There is one stage, which when elaps’d the ail, 
Doth baffle all the power of art to heal. 

When in the trunk, mordacious gangrenes burn, 
Which all the Blood to loathsome humours turn, 

The skillful Artist, tries to hea! the wound, 

And make that part as other parts, as sound, 

Applies his medicine to suspend the pain, 

And stop the humours—but applies in vain; 

For death is lurking there, and while he tries 


13 


His well aim’d shaft, the artist’s skill defies; 

So in a christless life there is a time, 

Which when elaps’d God will not pardon crime: 

Thus every stern impenitent shall know, 

That God to him shall prove a bitter foe. 

Calm in the bosom of tranquility. 

Sword of the Lord when shalt thou quiet lie? 

Put up thyself into thy sheath, be still, 

No more the world with heaps of slain to fill; 

But oh! this sword how can it quiet be 
Lord since it hath receiv’d a charge from thee: 

’Gainst Askelon, extending to the shore, 

Also of Moab, Bethgamuel and Aroer; 

With Mephaath. Kerioth and Beth-meon, 

Kiriathaim, Nebo, Bozrath and Dibon. 

Those had their harvest of a ruthless war, 

And now the fields shine yellow from afar. 

The vats o'erflow, the nations groan with sin, 

The reapers soon shall thrust their sickles in. 

Humility, the sacred records scan 
Is the prime lesson Jesus taught to man; 

By it most flagrant criminals arc aw’d, 

And access find, to an indignant God. 

Yet forty days, and Nineveh o’erthrown 
Shall be, this Jonah, to her sons made known; 

Nor was the message, by their Monarch spurn’d, 

From it obedience to his god he learn’d; 

Lay prostrate in the dust, bewail’d his sin; 

And hairy sackcloth wore upon his skin. 

Ahab also, who reign’d on Israel’s throne, 

For wickedness was parellelled by none, 

He and the bloody Jezebel, his wife, 

Conspir’d ’gainst Naboth and d ^stroy’d his life: 

From his deep wounds, forth stream’d the crimson flood, 
And dogs lick’d up the harmless Naboth’s blood; 

So, Jezebel’s rank flesh, some fatal hour 
At Jezreel’s wall, dogs also did devour. 

But when Elijah told the wicked King, 

The ills which God design’d on him to bring; 

Soon as he heard the alarming sentence given, 

He rent his clothes and fear’d the wrath of Heav'n; 

Such terrors fill’d his agonized breast, 

2 


14 


He laid aside his crown and gold-trim’d vest, 
With fasting wasted was his flesh, nay more, 

The rugged saekloth on his skin he wore. 

Then said the Lord, Elijah hast thou seen 
How Ahab hath before me humbled been; 
Because he to repentence thus gives way, 

1 will not bring the evil in his day; 

But shall on King Jehoram, Allah's son, 

My judgments pour, when Ahab’s years are run; 
Thus true repentance checks the rapid sway 
Of sin’s career, beneath the lunar ray. 

Men have forgot, but shall my Muse suppress 
The agony, the exquisite distress, 

The ghastly looks, the doleful plaintive moans, 
The heavy sighs, the agonizing groans; 

The racking torments, the mordacious pain 
They bore, who by the pestilence were slain. 

Breadful cholera, thy contagious breath 
Is the forerunner of tormenting death; 

The king of terrors marching in thy train, 

Long o’er the world, thou’st held a gloomy reign; 
By thee the husband mourns his absent wife, 

The soft becalmer of the storms of life; 

By thee, the orphan’s destined to complain 
Thro’ life’s eventful and bewildering scene; 

By thee, the wife bemoans her husband dead, 
The guardian and dear partner of her bed; 

By thee, the sister at the gloomy grave 
Of her dear brother, took eternal leave. 

Gout, stone, consumption; appoplexy dire, 

Cause thousands, tens of thousands to expire. 
Rheumatic pains and wheesing Asthmas may 
In lingering torments, languish life away; 

With yet a thousand agonizing boons 
Bequeath’d by Adam to his numerous sons; 

Those dire diseases;—those, and many more, 

For man’s chastisement still remain in store; 

And like destroying monsters forth they go, 

When God unlocks his magazines of wo. 

The burning fever on his gloomy way, 

One here—one there —suffice him for his prey; 
But where the cholera’s sable ensigns wave, 


Few ’scape a summon to tho destin’d grave; 

Like Eden’s bower, the vanguard of his way, 

The rear a lonely wilderness display; 

Thus was the earth by Heaven’s dread vials scourg’d, 
The cities wasted, and the nations purg’d. 


THE PROGRESS OF ART. 


CANTO III. 


The great military strength of the oountry—a concise detail of what 
the Americans suffered, by tyrannical oppression—their redemption attri¬ 
buted to the immortal Washington. 

As laughter is the gleeful child of mirth, 

So art and science, give to fame her birth; 

As hoarier grows the head of ancient time, 

So art progresseth fast thro’ ev’ry clime. 

Art shines in Egypt’s pyramids so tall; 

Art boasts her strength in China’s mighty wall. 

Tho’ now in ruins great Palmyra lies, 

Whose tow’ring summit brav’d the vaulted skies; 

Tho’that great structure, far fam’d Shamadoo 
Now totters, with the city of Pegu; 

Tho’ ruin’d Athens tells a mournful story, 

In sad remembrance of her former glory; 

Yet Art, we trace thy wonder-working hands 
In those once bright, but now benighted lands; 

And tho’ those regions thou’st departed quite, 

That now they sleep in ignorance and night; 

Yet thou to climes afar hast found the way. 

Where nobler prospects brighten intoday. 

Art, thee we hail! to freedom’s blissful shores, 

Tho’ dark’ned nations kick the out of doors: 

Reside with us—be thou our darling child; 

Tho’ such as hate the boast in being wild. 

Already here, Art! thy effulgent beams, 

The meuntainsgild, and glide along the streams! 

Art hath found out sublime discoveries, 




17 


But art works no impossibilities; 

Art stabs not reason to assert the whim 

That lambs may wade were elephants must swim; 

Art to to the faithless morass don’t retire, 

Plants not her dwelling in the deep quagmire; 

Art never hopes her edifice to rear, 

Upon the sinking sand, or yielding air; 

Art wars with art, whilst men their powers employ, 
Hence many arts the race of men destroy. 

Tho’ navigation teacheth men to sail 
Against the tempest and the milder gale; 

Tho’ the charm’d needle points the northern pole, 
Far as wild ocean’s lashing surges roll: 

Yet navigation now thy victimssleep, 

Ten thousand fathoms down the trackless deep. 

Gunpowder art most arts in strength outbraves, 
Sweeps countless thousands to their destin’d graves, 
And in contending armies makes to ache 
The stoutest heart, and limbs with horror quake; 
Thus, while most other arts their thousands foil, 

His tens of thousands mend the fattening soil. 

Tho’ vessels proudly on the billows ride. 

Impell’d by steam and thunder through the tide; 
Though cars bp steam along the rail-road scour 
The rapid speed of forty miles an hour, 

As Ormand’s courser sped before the wind 
So nimbly that he left no track behind,— 

But tho’ of steam some tell a doleful story, 

Yot from most arts it bears away the glory. 

Lancaster Gap what cost and irksome pain 
Were spent with thee—but were not spent in vain: 
Ye mineralogists, who cought the flame. 

Of art, which guides thro’ earth’s stupendous frame, 
Who to your deep declivities descend, 

And in discupid forms your bodies bend; 

Or into darksome cells more closely squeeze, 

To prob earth’s entrails underneath the seas: 

There all along, stretch’d on your nitrey beds, 

The thundering billows homing o’er your heads— 

As thus you search earth’s fiery veins for ore, 

Can you to this a similar place explore? 

The curious eye this sight much more admires, 

Than all the wonders of volcanic fires, 

2 * 








18 


Is it an entrance to the dark abodes 

Where pungent pain the damned soul corrodos? 

Say, is’t the summit of that ruggid steep 
Projecting o’er the dread tarterian deep? 

Or some suspended acqueduct, which brings 
Incessant torrents from exhaustless springs? 

How shall I this compare, lest I forsooth, 

Should swerve from reason or recede from truth. 

As slowly step my tragic notes along 
Thro’the dark mazes of descriptive song. 

Earth, in thy ponderous body is’t a scar, 

Like that which oft in human structures are. 

As war train’d armies ’gainst the hostile foe, 

From ponderous cannon chain-bound bullets throw, 
Then to the charge rush with impetuous force, 

Nor fire, nor sword, can stay their rapid course: 

Is on our rail-road, with resistless sway, 

Thro’ rocks and hills they forced their rugged way; 

In each deep crevice of the rocky vein, 

They pour the nimble fire-attractive bane, 

The flash appears, the thunder-claps resound, 

The dread concussion rocks the solid ground, 

While showers of stones fly, casting dread afar, 

Like hoard artillery in the din of war: 

Houses and fences torn -by rapid shocks, 

Of weightier fragments from stupendous rocks, 

Clouds of sulphurious smoke on high ascend, 

And loud explosions massy rocks distend. 

Hark? how Lancasters firm foundation quakes, 

As thundering Aetna to her centre shakes, 

When giant earthquake, rousing from his spasm, 
Convulsing upward rends the hideous chasm, 

Air bursts his prison in the dark confines, 

Pursues his lightnings through the flinty mines; 
While roar through caverns of obscure profound, 

His nether thunders, in the shocks of sound. 
America, delightful country sure, 

And may thy freedom thro’ all time endure, 

May independence thro’ thy wide domain, 

Free the control of all invaders’ reign, 

May nature bloom, demanding trivial toil, 

Round thy rich landscapes of prolific sail. 

Freedom, sweet gem! with birthright from the skies, 


19 


Oh! may thy sons thee as their lives still prize; 

May no revolts, with their infernal strings 
Be able to contract thy golden wings. 

Great is thy strength, still to augment it, are 
Thy rudiest youths senlisted for the war, 

And many an irksome drill must undergo, 

The better to retalliate on the foe, 

So by tuition, soon the youthful heart, 

Imbibes the saguine, though sagacious art; 

Hence redoubtable, in day of battle, 

We make our artificial thunders rattle. 

On every side our naval forces guard 
Our happy shores, invaders to retard; 

How terrible, by casting dread afar, 

Our thundering cannon in the din of war. 

Jerusalem’s massy walls in ruins lie; 

But we Vespavian’s battering rams defy. 

Should England hope once more to try our strength, 
They’ll hear our thunders, ere they reach our length. 
Come England now, with war convulse our lands; 

And wrench our dear bought purchase from our hands, 
Hope that we’ll ’neath your galling fetters yell, 

Yes, when lines meet by running parallel; 

To cherish hope of this, as well you may 
Try to arrest the lightning on its way; 

As well attempt to stop the ebbing tide, 

To still the thunders, and the planets guide; 

As well in air try to suspend a storm, 

Or make the Sun triangular in form; 

As well attempt to cure tartarian pains, 

By loosing myriads from their flaming chains: 

Hard task indeed, ah! say what mortal arm, 

Cansuch stupendous miracles perform; 

ButGod can work with wonders ever fresh, 

To shew the weakness of an arm of flesh. 

Boston, the great, by science well refin’d, 

Boston, far-fam’d, unanimous in mind* 

Whose bravery dealt on Gage destrustion’s blow, 

Laid his inveterate, hosiile squadrons low. 

Long Island, Brandywine and Bunker’s Hill, 

Guildford and Eutaw, are on record still, 

To shew what freedom’s sons have undergone, 

What freedom’s sons have for their country done. 










20 


O England! England! many a bloody scene 
Has charg’d to you on time’s long annals been: 
By fire and sword, our once distressed land, 

Has sorely felt thy fell oppressing hand; 

And sons of freedom, do your hearts give room 
Yet to the thought that she’s more kind become? 
The wolf and bear, though quite in their chain, 

A wolf and bear in nature still remain: 

But let them loost not longer the) ’ll suppress 
That baneful nature which they still possess— 

By all the horrors of vindictive rage, 

They’ll quickly in destruction’s work engage: 

So England yields submission, tho’ with pain, 
Because she’s bound by freedom’s mighty chain; 
The puny child she struggled with before, 

Yet even that infant torc’d her to give o’er, 

Hath to a great and mighty giant grown, 

Who would not dread the terror of his frown. 

O England! England! iron pens would fail 
Of all thy guilt to sketch the full detail; 

If fire and sword have laid Jerusalem low, 

So shall you, one day, meet a similar blow; 

Orby ono blast of elemental guns, 

Share the dread fate of Job’s unthinking sons. 

Oh! sons of freedom! let not England up. 

Lest you again should drink the bitter cup; 

Lest youbencath her galling fetters roar, 

. And witness scenes like those of sixty-four. 

Well may our land, long fertiliz’d with blood, 
Produce abundant crops for creature good. 

America! thy tens of thousands slain, 

May tell the cruelty of England’s reign. 

What force of words, what language can expres 
What thou hast borne? thine exquisite distress? 

Thus to the world authentic records tell, 

What to our land of England’s lash befell. 

Sooner may I, into some den be borne, 

And there by a rapacious bear be torn; 

Or let the fell hyena me environ, 

That for his prey would rend the bars of iron; 

Or some wild, hungry wolf, loos’d from his chain, 

To seek a prey his nature to sustain; 

I rather choose the soul appaling doom, 




21 




Ere I again to England’s chains give room; 

Like Samson’s withe I rend her galling bands; 
And hail sweet freedom in far distant lands; 

If I extol thee, England, then my heart 
Did, with Delilah, act the treacherous part. 

Who many pleasing things to Samson said, 

And on her lap to slumber laid his head; 

But while he slept, by hell-bred tutors taught, 

| She his sad murderers from the chamber brought. 
As when in camp to rest great armies go, 

A sentinel is placed to watch the foe; 

But a long shelter’d treach’rous resolution, 

The wily foe puts then in execution; 

And in that silent nnd unwary hour, 

Upon the camp their savage forces pour; 

The sentinel, at the approaching ill, 

Sounds the false tidings, all is well, be still— 
While, like adoluge, ruin and affright 
Awake theslumberers in the dead of night, 

Blood, death, destruction, station in the van, 

Till all are dead, all slaughtered to a man; 

Thus like Delilah or the centinel, 

I were by saying England ruleth well. 

Say, what infernal plagues should such inherit, 

As wrong pure innocence and trample merit? 

But when an infant country groaned and bled, 
And little hope when she should lift her head, 
Great WASHINGTON, the bravest of the brave, 
Brac’d on his armour and reedeern’d the slave; 

His character, exempt from every shade, 

That not one vice did tarnish nor degrade, 

From blame exempt, from every stigma free, 
Courteous, humane and circumspect was he; 

Nor prose nor rhyme can higher raise his name, 
*Tis station’don the loftiest mount of fame; 

None whiter strive to paint the new fali’n snows, 
Nor add vermillion to the pink or rose; 

Exhaustless fund of art and virtue join’d, 

The noblest, bravest, wisest of mankind; 

Now near the fount of life’s cxhaustless springs, 
Far other world’s he strikes the trembling strings; 
His harp attun’d, with the blood-ransom’d throng, 
Strikes sweet the numbers of immortal song; 



22 


When shall we meet him on that blissful shore, 
Where sorrow, grief and mourning, are no more 
But ere we close, we caution Franee to pause, 
Nor marshal troops in an unlawful cause; 

Let her behold her portrait in the glass, 

Examine well the two sides of her face; 

There she’ll behold a shaken constitution, 

Brav’d by the shocks of many a revolution. 
Unhealthy picture, all is fell disease, 

In wild commotion, like the troubled seas; 

Each limb distorted, every sinew strain’d, 

And all the body exquisitely pain’d: 

To war, by land or sea, France may not roam, 
She has her wars and massacres at home? 


THE EJtllGRJIJYVS SIGH. 


Farewell, dearest Erin, the land of my home; 

Now from thee, through regions far distant I roam! 
Adieu thy green bowers, where flowrets so fair, 
Perfume with sweet scents thy salubrious air. 

In season of Autumn, with beauties”untold, 

Appear thy rich landscapes in garments of gold. 

Flow on, river Fin, speed thy course to the main, 

1 never shall see thy bright streeamlets again! 

Adieu to thy banks of perpetual green, 

Where the shamrock and daisy are still to be seen: 
Farewell splendid Thrush-bank, the place of my birth, 
I prize thee the fairest and dearest on earth. 

Say here, there, or whither, what adverb of place, 
May with thee compare in the circuit of space! 

My juvenile seasons, forever you’re gone, 

In the fathomless void of forgetfulness thrown! 

Sweet days of my childhood, forever farewell, 

Past pleasures too irksome, too galling to tell: 

When in yonder mansion, adjacent the mill, 

I received tuition to handle the quill; 

And oft, by the murmuring stream of the brook, 

I canvass’d the pages of nature’s wide book; 

Sweet pleasures, sweet pleasures, I bid you farewell, 
Now from you far distant, I’m destin’d to dwell, 

But home, tho’ thy name I still love and adore, 

Yet liberty’s charms inflame my heart more; 

Beneath her dear wings is my sure resting place, 
There pass my last moments, there finish my race; 
Prosperity smiles in her soul-cheeing ray; 

Sweet foretaste of bliss that shall never decay. 

Yet Erin, although I have slip’d my fell chains, 

A tear for thy sorrows my heart still retains: 

May heaven propitious gild with a smile, 


24 


Thy wo-fuiTow’d aspect, my dear natal isle, 

May the grisly tyrant’s disastrous sctyhe 

Sweep from thee such dogs as arc greedy for tithe; . 

May thy languishing eye soon behold the glad day, 

That speaks all thy grief and opprrssion away. 

But tho’ thou art harrass’d with sorrow aud wo, 

Yet, yet, thou hast power to writhe from the blow. 
Awake from thy slumber, oppression assail, 

Shake off party spirit, let union prevail; 

So long on thy vitals usurpers have fed, 

Thou hast life-seeming features—but ah thou art dead 
Rise, rise from thy lowly bed, wash off thy gore, 

Let England’s fell demons enslave thee no more. 
Think, think on their conflicts, the sons of the brave. 
Whose blood stain’d the battle field, dyed the blue wave. 
To purchase their freedom, with valour untold, 

They bore the keen torments of hunger and cold. 

Now a country is theirs where oppression’s unknown, 
The beauty of earth and the word’s renown. 

Thus,Erin,be freedom’s legitimate son, 

Choose still in her footsteps and circle to run, 

Deal England destruction, no more bear her yoke, 

The strong cord of union is hard to be broke. 

Unlock the foul dungeons, burst open the cells, 

Where England’s corruption and tyranny dwells. 


THE END. 















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